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SWEETHEAET 



ERNEST GILMORE, 

(VtLc^ ^ W fi^iSLrY\^ 3^ 


0:p\ 

, Alin n 1896 


;lvf/ 


A.MERIOA.N TIIA.OT SOCIETY 

10 EAST 23d STREET, NEW YORK. 



COPYRIGHT, 1896, 

BY AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 

/Z-3ZS^3 


IN LOVING MEMORY 


OF 

THEODORE SHEARMAN FARLEY 
AND 

CORNELIA MATTHEWSON FARLEY 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICA TED 

BY THEIR 


MOTHER. 



Gontrnxs 


CHAPTER I. 

A BLIZZARD page 7 

CHAPTER II. 

A STRANGE LETTER 13 

CHAPTER III. 

UNCLE DICK. - 25 

CHAPTER IV. 

BECKY 34 

CHAPTER V. 

“ THOU SHALT LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF^' 47 

CHAPTER VI. 

A VISIT TO THE EAST END" 5 ^ 

CHAPTER VII. 

MARGUERITE SEYMOUR 66 

CHAPTER VIIL 

BRINGING THE PRODIGAL HOME 74 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE PARTY. ^ 










SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER I. 

A BLIZZARD. 

There had been a heavy snow-storm. The white flakes 
were still falling, blown about hither and thither in the high 
winds and drifting in great piles wheresoever they would, to the 
great discomfiture of all who were compelled by force of circum- 
stances to weather the storm. 

Sitting in a large, comfortable room of an old-fashioned 

house on Kentwood Avenue in the city of C was an old 

man whose face looked as gloomy as the dreary day. 

He was not as old as he looked, but to everyone who knew 
him he seemed an old man, with his white hair and long white 
beard, his bent shoulders, wrinkled, frowning, joyless face and 
halting steps. He was a victim to that dread disease, rheuma- 
tism. He was a victim, also, to something worse than rheuma- 
tism ; namely, to a nature which was, had been, and promised 
ever to be, “ kicking against the pricks.” 

Strife and bitterness had been his comrades for many weari- 
some years. One look into his cold, stern face would have told 


8 


SWEETHEART. 


you that he did not consider life worth living. And he was right 
in his opinion, as far as his own life was concerned: Christ was 
not in it. By that I do not mean that he was keenly and aggres- 
sively anti-Christian. He was no ranter. He did not talk to 
any one of his belief or unbelief. He was simply indifferent in 
regard to the one great need of this world. He had not a par- 
ticle of patience with Christians, so-called. This state of mind 
had been brought about in the common way — natural, perhaps, 
to a certain extent, and yet so deplorable in its consequences — 
because he judged Christ’s church by some of its members who 
failed to stand the test. Persons professing Christianity had, in 
by-gone years, done him great wrongs, and so, judging the 
wheat by the tares growing among it, he regarded Moslems and 
pagans with far greater leniency than Christians. 

It would be useless for me to tell you that he was unhappy ; 
he could not, of course, be otherwise, without Christ. He did 
not realize, poor man, that outside of the door of his soul Christ 
stood, had stood, through all his years of neglect, patiently 
knocking. 

“Knocking, knocking, still He’s there. 

Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair ; 

But the door is hard to open. 

For the weeds and ivy vine, 

With the dark and clinging tendrils, 

Ever round the hinges twine.” 

And yet, strange to say, there were people who envied him. 
Had they known of his loneliness and wretched unrest they 


A BLIZZARD. 


9 


would have pitied him instead. But, like shallow natures the 
world over, they judged by externals. They envied him the fine 
old place that he owned. They envied him the great, roomy, 
old-fashioned house and the faithful old servants. They envied 
him the money that they knew he had. But, notwithstanding 
these facts, many a beggar in the city was far happier than was 
he. 

He had no friends and, what was worse, he desired none. 
Years ago he had closed his heart against everyone. Added to 
the treachery of friends had come the open disgrace of a wild 
son, whom he had then cast off to “ shift for himself.” 

Following swiftly on the heels of this trouble there had 
come another of great magnitude. His wife, a lovely woman, to 
whom he had been devotedly attached, had died. His great 
bereavement did not prove a means of discipline to him ; instead, 
it brought a bitterness that had increased as the years rolled by. 
Some years after his wife had died still another trouble came : 
his only daughter, the pride of his heart, a bright and beautiful 
girl, had married a man whom he considered unworthy of her. 
One day, in remorseful penitence, she had sought her father, 
begging his forgiveness in a voice full of tears. But it was not 
granted. In a tempest of anger he bade her leave him for 
ever, she was nothing to him henceforth. So, even although his 
two children might still be living, he neither knew nor cared 
whether they were or not ; he was childless. 

Childless ! A pitiful state for one who has known the joys 


lO 


SWEETHEART. 


of fatherhood ; pitiful under any circumstances, but more pitiful 
when it is our own will that we should be so. 

Fathers shed tears over the graves of the children whom 
God has called home, but there are sometimes fathers’ eyes that 
are dry with an agony too great for tears over their living 
children. 

This father, however, had neither tears nor agony for his 
children ; his heart was seared. 

How the winds tore around the house ! It was a genuine 
blizzard. Pompey, an old colored servant, came in and heaped 
more coals on the sparkling grate fire. He had just shaken 
down the furnace. The house was warm enough for anyone. 

“ Drefful storm, massa,” he observed pleasantly, showing his 
white teeth in a broad smile, as if it were the most delightful 
thing imaginable to have a blizzard. “ Is you warm enough, 
massa T' 

“ No,” was the surly reply, the old man shivering ominously, 
“ I ’m not warm enough. Who could be, I ’d like to know, with 
such horrid weather } Pull down the shades, Pompey, and draw 
the curtains.” 

Pompey was struck dumb ; he stood quite still, the smile 
gone out of his face, looking for all the world like a person gone 
daft, watching the old man furtively. 

“ Did n’t you hear me, you idiot T the man said angrily, the 
blood rushing into his face and making at least that part of him 
warm enough, notwithstanding the blizzard. “ Will you pull 


A BLIZZARD. 


II 


the shades down, or shall I ?” his dark eyes flashing threaten- 
ingly. 

Pompey found his voice and the use of his hands simul- 
taneously. 

“ Beg your pardon, massa,” he explained as he hurried to 
the windows to do what he had been told. “ I thought maybe 
you wasn’t thinking ’twas daytime, or you wouldn’t want de 
shades down. It ain’t more than four o’clock, massa. Did you 
know that 

“You need not trouble yourself to instruct me in regard 
to the time of day,” the old man remarked stiffly. “ It was n’t 
because I had any idea it was night that I ordered the curtains 
drawn, but because I wanted to shut out the horrid weather. 
Light the lamp, Pompey, and bring me the paper.” 

Pompey lit the lamp but he could not bring the paper, for 
the best of reasons — it had not come. 

“ De blizzard done froze up de printing-press,” he said 
facetiously; “anyway, de paper didn’t come. Too bad, massa!” 

“You cleared the path to the gate, didn’t you?” the old 
man demanded sternly, although he knew the faithful servant 
never neglected any duty. 

“ Yes, massa, I ’se done cleared dat path to de gate six 
times dis blessed day. De blizzard an’ I done had a battle to 
see who owned dat path, he or I.” 

A grim smile passed over the old gentleman’s face. 

“ Who won the battle ?” he asked with some interest. 


12 


SWEETHEART. 


“Yo’ humble servant,” with another of those broad smiles 
which revealed his white teeth. Even while the old colored 
servant was recounting his victory the enemy stole a march on 
him. The path, neatly and carefully cleared a little while before, 
was now drifted with snow again. But the drifts did not deter 
a man dressed in grey clothes with brass buttons, with a strap 
over his shoulder to which was attached a leather bag, from 
making an attempt to reach the house. He plodded on, up to 
his knees in snow, sometimes nearly pushed off his feet by 
the whirling wind, but making steady progress until the goal 
was reached, when he blew a whistle, clear and shrill. 


A STRANGE LETTER, 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

A STRANGE LETTER. 

“ Hello !” said Pompey opening the door, “ I ’s mighty glad 
to see you; couldn’t do widout you. I hope yo ’s got de even- 
ing paper dis time.” 

“ That ’s what I have, Pompey, and plenty of other mail 
besides.” 

The postman lingered only long enough to transfer the 
mail from his leather bag to Pompey’s outstretched hands. 

“ I hope massa ’ll be satisfied now,” observed the latter as 
he hurried back to the library ; “ here ’s six papers, t’ree maga- 
zines and four letters. I wonder who dey ’s all from, dese 
letters.” 

The daily papers seemed to be the greatest comfort of the 
old gentleman’s life. He would as soon have thought of going 
without his breakfast as of depriving himself of the morning 
paper; as soon have forgotten to eat his six o’clock dinner as 
to have neglected the evening news. Consequently he felt 
relieved when Pompey brought in the mail. He seemed to 
forget the storm; he could not see it through the drawn cur- 
tains. He forgot that it was not eventide ; it seemed so in that 
library with the lighted lamp and sparkling fire. He looked 


14 


SWEETHEART. 


over the evening paper first. It was newsy, and so claimed his 
attention for some time. As he laid it aside he pushed back the 
other papers, and glanced over the letters — one, two, three, four. 
Looking at number one, he said to himself, “ That ’s from Greer 
(Greer was his agent, who attended to the renting of a block 
of houses belonging to him); he’s having some trouble, likely, 
with some of the tenants. He always is having trouble. Won- 
der what ’s the matter now !” 

But, although he wondered, he made no attempt to find out 
just then. Laying Greer’s letter aside with its seal unbroken, 
he took up letter number two. 

“ That ’s Platt’s writing — another begging letter — what a 
fool he is, wasting his time and stamps !” and he threw the con- 
demned letter into the scrap-basket unopened. He grabbed 
up number three impatiently, as if he had a spite against it, 
but he honored it by breaking the seal : it was the butcher’s 
bill, which he had requested. “ Pompey must pay it to-morrow,” 
was his thought, and he laid it aside to examine number four, 
which was post-marked Nebraska, and was quite bulky. 

“ I wonder who it is from,” he said, studying the hand- 
writing, which was a lady’s. “ I have no claims in Nebraska nor 
any friends there.” 

Most people would have opened the letter, thus satisfying 
their curiosity, but the old gentleman was not like most people ; 
it suited him to study the handwriting, and wonder whose it 
was. At last he slowly broke the seal, and took out two letters. 


A STRANGE LETTER. 


15 


one inclosed within the other. He opened the outer one, and 
read : 

“ Mr. Richard Dalzell. 

“ Dear Sir : The gentleman who wrote the inclosed letter 
died at my home last week. He was an old friend of yours, 
and made me promise to forward his letter to you as soon as 
possible after his death. He also made me promise to send 
‘ Sweetheart ’ to you, which I have done. She will reach your 
house Thursday, the i8th inst., if all goes well. God grant her 
a safe journey and a warm welcome ! 

“ Yours very truly, 

“MARY LAWRENCE.” 

What jargon was this ! Whom had she sent him, this crazy 
woman named Mary Lawrence, that would reach him on Thurs- 
day, the i8th inst? Why, it was Thursday, the i8th, now ! His 
hands trembled as he laid down the outer letter and lifted up the 
inner one. His heart beat loudly. He had a strange sensation, 
as if something in the region of his heart was swelling into 
a heavy weight that threatened to smother him. Black specks 
floated back and forth before his eyes aggravatingly. But he 
was not timid, he would not be “frightened by a straw,” so 
he opened the letter, and read : 

“ Dear old Boy : 

“ Strange — is n’t it ? — how memory clings to the old friends 
whose pictures were hung in our hearts when life was young 


i6 


SWEETHEART. 


and joyful. It is forty years to-night, Dick, forty years since 
you and I said good-by. Who could believe that forty years 
could come and go with you and me on the same earth and 
we not see each other! Who would think that forty years of 
joy and sorrow could pass away and yet not even a written word 
pass between us! Why have you not written to rne.f^ Why 
have I not written to you? Why? Why? Why? That word 
‘ why ’ is difficult to answer ; is it not ? 

“ I know one thing, dear old Dick : it is n’t because I have 
not often thought of you that I have not written. Oh, no, it is 
not that, but the force of circumstances. 

“ I am not sentimental — never was, you know, in my young 
days, and would n’t think of being so now at sixty-five years old — 
but, dear old boy, all the same I must say I have come to the 
conclusion that 

“ ‘Old radiant faces are the best, 

Howeyer good the new !’ 

“ I have often wondered whether there were any other com- 
rades in this wide, wide world like we were. It does not seem 
so. We ought to have been named David and Jonathan. Some 
of the old pictures of our youth were dim and cobwebbed in 
my soul on account of the struggles of life — its ups and downs, 
its troubles, vexations and bereavements — but I ’ve been laid 
on the shelf for five weary months, and while my hands have 
been folded I ’ve had plenty of time to brush the cobwebs from 
the old pictures. 


A STI^ANGi: LETTER. 


17 


“ There is one picture I have looked at over and over, dear 
old Dick, until my eyes have grown dim with tears and my 
heart heavy with longing to see you once more in this world, 
out of which I am going rapidly. It is a beautiful picture, dear 
old comrade. There ’s a great raging fire, the flames leaping 
wide and high. In a room dense with smoke lies a poor fellow 
weak and emaciated from a long-protracted fever. The man 
who has been taking care of him has disappeared — looking out 
for his own life. In the panic no one in the big hotel has given 
a thought to the helpless man on his sick-bed. Suddenly flames 
leap into the window, and the poor fellow feels that he is doomed. 

“ Oh, the awfulness of that terrible moment ! The poor 
fellow tries to rise, but falls back upon his pillow, his lips white, 
his eyes shining with hopeless misery. But God is good. Into 
that stifling room there comes with flying steps — who.f^ An 
angel .f* No, a comrade; a dear old fellow, faithful and true, 
forgetting himself in his great love for his friend. It matters 
not to him that the hotel is doomed and that he is endangering 
his own life, the great-hearted fellow is determined to save his 
friend or perish in the attempt. 

There is not a moment to be lost. Snatching a blanket 
he wraps the sick man up, calming his fears meanwhile, and 
lifts him gently in his arms as if he were a little child. He 
bears him out through the long hall and broad stairway, through 
smoke and flame and threatening death, into fresh air and safety. 
But that was not all. He took him to his home and nursed him 


3 


i8 


SWEETHEART. 


through a relapse that but for his devotion would have proved 
fatal. 

“You recognize the picture, dear old comrade; and God 
bless you for ever for hanging it in my soul !” 

What was the matter with the old man ? Were those tears 
raining down his wrinkled cheeks ? He had not shed tears for 
many years ; could it be that they were falling now ? 

He could not proceed any further with the letter, so he laid 
it down and wiped his eyes and blew his nose, looking around 
to see that he was quite alone. He made no attempt to go on 
with the letter for some time, but he sat quite still, with his long 
hands clasped tightly together, looking backward. 

The look in his eyes was an unfamiliar one — the hardness, 
bitterness and coldness had all gone, for the moment at least, 
and in their place was a strange brooding tenderness such as 
one often sees in a mother’s eyes when she watches over the 
sick-bed of her little child. 

As he sat there thus, the lamplight and firelight illumining 
his face and silvery hair, he would have made a fine picture for 
an artist. In fact there was an artist, the divine One, touching 
his face into beauty. 

Cobwebs were swept from the pictures in his memory too, 
and after forty years’ dust and dimness this was revealed clear 
and bright : 

Two little fellows were playing together, one dressed in 
velvet, the other in patched clothes. The one in velvet had 


A STRANGE LETTER. 


19 


golden curls and big brown eyes, and wore yellow buttoned-boots 
with tassels on them. The other one’s hair was closely shingled 
and his little feet were bare and often dirty. 

But they were comrades, these two, and loved each other. 
The one in velvet was Richard Dalzell, commonly called “ Dick,” 
only child of Judge Dalzell, the other one was “ Lan ” Rivers, 
a little merry-faced orphan boy who played about the streets and 
was “looked after” by a cross old aunt. His real name was 
Delaney. 

This picture vanishes, and another shines in the soul of 
Richard Dalzell : 

Two boys in their early teens, with their arms thrown over 
each other’s shoulders as they trudged to school. Two boys 
who fished together, who went hunting arm-in-arm, who helped 
and cheered each other in the duties of life and were comrades 
in their frolics. Two boys who each thought that, without the 
other one, life would be a deary desert. 

As this picture recedes another comes : 

Two young men in college — classmates, roommates and 
comrades ; the one who was once a bare-footed little boy helping 
and spurring on the other one, who long ago had golden curls, 
until the latter with his friend won the highest honors. 

Another picture shone out suddenly and clearly. Again it 
was the picture of two, always two : 

There was a panic on a great steamer, it was going down 
with its hundreds of passengers and the scene was awful in the 


20 


SWEETHEART. 


extreme. The “ life-boats ” were all out, loaded with people, 
but there was no room for the young men, who now stood close 
together, arm-in-arm, facing death. The shore was not far off, 
but the sea was wild ; there was little use in thinking of breast- 
ing those tempestuous waves. 

“You can swim,” said one young man to the other, “try 
and save yourself.” 

“ But you ! What would you do ?” with anxious solicitude. 

“ Drown, of course,” hopelessly. “ I can’t swim.” 

It was he, Richard Dalzell, who had expected to drown, 
and it was the writer of the letter who had saved him at the 
risk of his own life. It all came back to him, that terrible time, 
as he sat recalling the past : how “ dear old Lan ” had struggled 
and fought those wildly surging waves in his noble battle to save 
him. 

Richard Dalzell reached up his arms as if to embrace 
someone, looking up with an intense gaze as if seeing the face 
of his friend of long ago. His lips quivered convulsively and 
then his eyes closed, his head drooped, his arms dropping down 
like a dead weight. 

When he opened his eyes again they fell upon the letter, 
which he took up with trembling hands. He did not begin 
reading exactly where he had left off but read again, “You 
recognize the picture, dear old boy, and God bless you for ever 
for hanging it in my soul !” 

Again the lips twitched ; but he continued the reading. 


A STRANGE LETTER. 


21 


“ I ’m writing this letter in installments, just a little at a 
time. I ’m so weak that I could n’t write much in one day, even 
if the doctor had n’t forbidden it, which he has. For fear I ’ll 
not hold out to write all I want to I ’ll relieve my mind of a 
burden that has pressed upon me sorely ever since I found out 
I could n’t get well. I ran across a man who knows you well : 
Dr. Treefor; and he told me you were living alone in the dear 
old house that I never think of without a longing to see it. He 
told me, too, that you were often a prisoner from that tiresome 
disease, rheumatism, and that faithful old Pompey and Chloe 
were with you yet. 

“ After I was stricken down, and found I ’d be compelled 
to wind up my earthly affairs, my mind was racked almost to 
distraction thinking what would become of Sweetheart. 

“ Oh, I forgot you did not know about her. I ’m often 
confused now-a-ways. Her father and mother died three years 
ago, since which time she has lived with me, my joy and com- 
fort. She is the only child of my only child. 

“ The wheel has turned around with me, leaving me almost 
stranded ; but for me it does not matter, for there will be enough 
to carry me down to the brink of that river which, when crossed, 
will land me on the golden shore. There is enough too, to pay 
my kind nurse, good Mary Lawrence, generously ; and also my 
physician and the funeral expenses. But when I think of Sweet- 
heart, I wish I could leave her the wherewithal to make her care- 
free and comfortable to her journey’s end. 


22 


SWEETHEART. 


“ The truth is, however, that I only have enough to pay her 

passage to C . I suppose I ought to get this off and receive 

an answer from you before 1 consider the arrangements made, 
but how can I, dear old fellow? You see, I can’t finish this in 
one writing, or two, or three ; I m doing the best I can. Besides, 
Sweetheart must go somewhere. I could not think of having her 
go to an orphans’ home, my little lamb. And I ’m sure she will 
prove a blessing to you, and you will be a blessing to her. God 
be with you both until your journey’s end. It is God’s will that 
I must leave her, but you ’ll receive her, dear old Dick, with open 
arms. She will love you, and you will love her. God bless you, 
my old comrade! God bless you I I ’ll be looking for you some 
day in that land where there are no tears — you and Sweetheart. 
I’ll thank you then a thousand times. Good-by, my comrade I 
Good-by I 

Yours forever, 

“DELANCY RIVERS." 

It was with mingled feelings of tenderness and annoyance 
that Richard Dalzell finished the letter. 

“ If I had known 1 If I had known,” was the thought run- 
ning through his mind, “ I would have gone to him in his ex- 
tremity. Dear old Lan ! Dear old Lan !” his eyes were misty. 
“ But to send his grand-daughter to me, what a strange thing to 
do! I could not receive her; of course not! It would be out of 
place for a strange young lady to come here to live, and prepos- 
terous !” 




A STRANGE LETTER. 


23 


His eyes were flashing now, his cheeks hot. He suddenly 
remembered his own daughter, banished forever from her father’s 
house. Her eyes, like stars, seemed to be looking into his just 
as they had looked that never-to-be-forgotten day when they 
parted. 

A cab on runners stopped outside of the gate, and presently 
a man lifted something or somebody, it was hard to tell which, 
in the blinding storm, from the cab into his arms, and plodded 
through the drifts to the front door. 

Suddenly the bell rang violently, startling the household. 
Pompey rushed to the door. Chloe dropped the spoon with which 
she had been mashing potatoes for the six o’clock dinner and 
followed. Even Richard Dalzell arose from his chair hastily 
and limped as far as the library door just as Pompey opened the 
outside one. A great “strapping” man stood on the threshold 
with a big bundle in his arms, which he hastily transferred to 
Pompey ’s. 

“ For Mr. Richard Dalzell,” the big man said, with a pe- 
culiar smile, and was gone. 

As Pompey closed the door behind the man who had de- 
livered the bundle curiosity got the better of Mr. Dalzell, who, 
stepping into the hall, asked peremptorily, 

“ What have you got for me, Pompey 

“ De Lord only knows, massa,” showing the whites of his 
eyes in consternation, as the bundle in his arms wriggled out of 
them. 


24 


SWEETHEART. 


The bundle struggled frantically until a big shawl and heavy 
veil were thrown aside, and there — to the amazement of the trio of 
old folks — stood a little girl wrapped from head to feet in scarlet. 
A little scarlet plush hood was on her head, and a long scarlet 
cloak came down to her feet. Her plump cheeks were scarlet, 
too. She looked timidly from one to another, but did not seem to 
be afraid. 

Chloe forgot all about her mashed potatoes in admiration 
of the strange guest. She went close to her, and kneeling down 
before her questioned gently, 

“ What yo’ name, lil’ missie } An’ what yo’ want ob us T' 

“ My name is Sweetheart,” answered a sweet voice, as clear as 
a silver bell. “ I want Uncle Dick. Where is he? I Ve come to 
live with him.” 

“ Fo’ de Ian’ sake !” exclaimed Chloe, sinking down on the 
rug in her consternation, “dat fellah done made a mistake — bring- 
in’ dis lil’ chile to de wrong house.” 

“ What yo’ know ’bout dat ?" asked Pompey. “ Who say so — 
dat lil’ missie came to de wrong house?” 

“ Can’t yo’ see she done come to de wrong house ? Ain’t she 
’quirin’ for her Uncle Dick? Yo’ bettah run right out an’ ketch 
dat man, Pomp, blizzard er no blizzard, an’ fine out whar lil’ 
missie b’longs. Mebbe he stole her !” 


UNCLE DICK. 


25 


CHAPTER III. 

UNCLE DICK. 

“ He did n’t steal me,” said the child, smiling. “ I belong 
here,” with gentle insistence ; “ grandpa said so. Grandpa has 
gone away — to heaven — and I ’ve come to live with Uncle Dick 
for ever and ever. Where is Uncle Dick T 

She did not see the gentleman standing in the shadow of the 
dark portiere. As for him, his face and lips grew white and his 
limbs trembled ; this little child was the dreaded “ Sweetheart ” 
whom he had resolved not to receive. 

“ What shall we do wid her, massa.?” asked Pompey, appeal- 
ingly, and yet almost fearfully. 

“ The best thing you can do is to bring her in where it ’s 
warm, and take off her wraps.” 

Richard Dalzell spoke so gently that Pompey wondered if 
it were the calm preceding a storm, or whether the world was 
coming to an end. 

“ Bring her into the library, Pompey,” leading the way. 

Chloe reluctantly returned to the kitchen, while Pompey led 
the little one into the warm bright room and removed her hood 
and cloak. A vision of loveliness she appeared. Fair and plump, 

with lips and cheeks red as holly-berries, beautiful eyes of violet 
4 


26 


SWEETHEART. 


blue, and a crown of golden hair falling down her shoulders, she 
made a charming picture. 

She looked up into the face of the old man regarding her 
intently, with a smile so lovely, and so touching in its longing, 
that the hard lines around the stern mouth relaxed. With out- 
stretched hands she ran up to him, and threw her arms around 
his neck. 

“You’re Uncle Dick; aren’t you she remarked lovingly, 
with perfect faith in the goodness of her “ grandpa’s old friend.” 

She kissed his cheeks, and not noticing just then that he had 
not returned the caress she rested her fair little face against his. 
Pompey stole out of the room softly; he thought perhaps the 
world was coming to an end, and told Chloe so. 

The old gentleman did not move. Presently the little girl 
said, with a little quiver in her tone, “You forgot to kiss me; 
did n’t you T 

He did not speak, but pressed his lips to her forehead. A 
minute later a tear rolled from the sweet blue eyes and fell upon 
his cheek. Then he aroused. Utterly ignoring the stiffness 
and pain of his rheumatic knees he lifted the child upon them, 
folding his arms about her protectingly. 

“ What is the matter, my dear T he asked so gently that the 
voice did not seem to be Richard Dalzell’s. “ Why do you cry ? 
Oh, you are tired ; I might have known that was the trouble. 
You have come a long way.” 

“ I ’ve come a long way and I ’m tired,” was the answer, “ but 


UNCLE DICK. 


27 


I ’m not such a baby as to cry for such things,” tossing back 
her golden curls with a touch of pride. “ I was thinking of my 
grandpa. He has gone to heaven,” her lips quivering. “ Did 
you know that my grandpa had gone to heaven T 

“ Yes.” 

“ I was lonely without grandpa,” she continued, “ and I 
wanted to go to heaven where grandpa was — mamma and papa 
are there, too — but Miss Lawrence said I couldn’t just now; some 
other time. She did n’t know when. She said I should come to 
you because you were grandpa’s dear old friend. You would 
be glad to see me and would love me ; so I came,” confidingly. 

The old gentleman did not speak, only looked at the child as 
if fascinated. 

“Are you glad to see me. Uncle Dick?” she questioned 
gently. “ Do you love me ?” 

Another gleam like that which had come into his face when 
he was reading his old comrade’s letter came into it now. He 
looked around to see if he and the little one were alone. 

“Yes,” he said, a genuine smile breaking over his rugged 
features, “ I am glad to see you, and — ” he stopped there abruptly. 
The child looking wistfully into his face repeated, 

“ And love me ?” 

He hesitated no longer. 

“ And love you.” 

The rock was melted. The child nestled her sunny head on 
his shoulder. 


28 


SWEETHEART. 


“ I love you, too. It ’s just exactly as grandpa dear said,” 
laughing contentedly. “ He said we ’d love each other. I ’m so 
glad to be here. Uncle Dick, with you. I got so tired on the 
cars, so very tired. It seemed to me as if they were taking me 
away off to the end of the world. But they were n’t ; were they 1 
They were just bringing me here to you.” 

She chattered on, her golden hair rippling about her radiant 

face. 

“ You have not told me your name,” the old gentleman 
observed. “ What is it. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, laughing. “ I thought 
I told you my name ; it is Sweetheart.” 

“ Is that your real name T' 

“Yes,” she answered, not understanding what he meant, 
“ that ’s my name ; my real name.” 

“ So people call you ‘ Sweetheart,’ do they.? And you have 
no other name ?” 

“0-o-oh!” with a little ripple of merriment. “Yes, I have 
another name — in the book; my given name grandpa calls it: 
Theodora Rivers ; but I ’most forget about that name because I 
never hear it. Mamma and papa always called me Sweetheart, 
and so did grandpa. Do you like the name Sweetheart, Uncle 
Dick .?” 

She asked the question in perfect innocence, and he an- 
swered, 

“ Yes.” 


UNCLE DICK. 


29 


Presently Pompey returned to the library. 

“ Dinner ’s ready, massa,” he announced. 

Sweetheart got down from Mr. Dalzell’s lap and stood beside 
him. She was very hungry, consequently glad that dinner was 
ready, but she did not say so. Richard Dalzell reached out for 
his cane, which he took in his right hand, and arose. With his 
left hand he clasped one of Sweetheart’s, saying, 

“ Come, we ’ll go to dinner : you must be hungry.” 

“ Yes, I am,” she answered frankly. 

They went out to the dining-room together — she walking 
slowly to accommodate his halting steps. 

“ Where ’s the young lady’s chair?” Mr. Dalzell demanded, as 
he discovered there was none placed for her. 

“ I did n’t know — yo’ did n’t say — ” stammered Pompey, who 
had not dared to put an extra chair to the table without asking, 
and had not dared to ask. 

Mr. Dalzell felt like saying something sharp, but he did not 
yield to the feeling; it would not do, with that little innocent face 
so near him, so he answered quite gently for him, 

“ Get the russet arm-chair, Pompey,” and presently from 
some mysterious source he brought forth a beautiful russet chair, 
which Sweetheart took possession of, saying, delightedly, 

“ It just fits me.” 

They became quite well acquainted during the dinner hour, 
which was so pleasant that neither one of them remembered the 
storm outside. 


30 


SWEETHEART. 


But Sweetheart did not spend all the time talking, she was 
hungry — as she had said — and ate heartily. 

“We have such a fine dinner,” she said; “ it tastes so good. 
We have a good cook ; have n’t we ?” 

Mr. Dalzell smiled. 

It was so strange and yet so pleasant to have this little mite 
of a girl — just come into his home — use the pronoun we, as if she 
already felt herself a part of the household. 

“ Miss Mary Lawrence was good,” she continued; “ oh, so very 
good and kind ! I loved her ; but she could n’t cook like this. 
She was n’t any cook, grandpa said. I used to cook sometimes for 
grandpa.” 

“You cook!” in surprise. “You are rather young for that 
kind of work — are n’t you 

“ Oh, no,” said she, “ I do n’t think so. Grandpa and I had a 
chafing-dish and a chafing receipt-book, and he’d tell me how, 
and I ’d cook things. We had a little tea-kettle too, that stood 
over an alcohol lamp on our little tea-table. I used to make a cup 
of tea for grandpa sometimes, and chocolate sometimes, and some- 
times bouillon. I can cook for you, sometimes, too. Uncle Dick, 
if you would like. Would you 

“ Thank you,” was the answer, “ perhaps I would like to have 
you do so — sometime.” 

Do what she would Sweetheart could not keep her eyes open 
when she went back to the library. 

“ I ’m so sleepy,” she said. “ I did n’t sleep much on the cars. 












UNCLE DICE 


3 ^ 


Can I go to bed, Uncle Dick? And can I sleep somewhere near 
you ?” 

The questions touched him — especially the second one. He 
left Sweetheart for a moment and had a few words with his faith- 
ful old servants, and presently the latter had opened a little room 
which led into Mr. Dalzell’s and were lighting and warming it. 
Hot-water bottles were in the bed and hot air rushed in through 
the hot air register. Then Chloe came for the little girl, who 
kissed “ Uncle Dick” and followed her gladly. 

“ I ’se goin’ ter help yo’ to bed,” said Chloe, as soon as they 
were in the little room. “ Turn roun’, lil’ missie, an’ I’ll he’p yo’ 
wid yo’ dress.” 

“ Oh, thank you very much,” was the reply. “ I ’m used to 
helping myself mostly, but I ’m glad to have some one unhook 
my dress to-night.” 

Tired as she was, she knelt down, and folding her little hands 
together prayed such a beautiful prayer that tears rolled down the 
colored woman’s cheeks, but were wiped away before the child 
arose from her knees. 

She waited in the little room until Sweetheart was sound 
asleep, which was in a few moments, and then before putting out 
the light she gave one more look — a lingering one — into the 
sweet face, and leaving the door ajar stole softly out, and down 
stairs to the kitchen. 

“ Pompey,” said she, “ I b’lieve dat de Lawd done sent dat 
angel here to show massa de way — to open de doah !” 


32 


SWEETHEART. 


“ De way whar ? To open what doah ?” 

“ De way to Jerusalem de golden. To open de doah ob his 
heart to Him dat’s ben a knockin an’ a knockin fer dis many a 
yeah.” 

The following day several trunks came to Sweetheart : one 
containing her own clothing and other personal belongings, a 
second held some of her “mother’s things” that her grandfather 
knew she would treasure as she grew older, and the third con- 
tained some of her grandfather’s treasures — books, souvenirs of 
travel and old friendship. Two of the trunks were stored away 
for the present, the third was unpacked by Sweetheart with the 
assistance of Chloe. 

She shook out her little dresses carefully and Chloe hung 
them up in the clothes-press. They were all simply made, and 
of inexpensive material, but pretty and becoming. Still as the 
days and weeks passed by there were many additions to her ward- 
robe. Mr. Dalzell had been called out several times on business 
since Sweetheart’s arrival, and he never came home without bring- 
ing her something : a dress, a hat with plumes, a coat, a sacque, 
a pair of bronze shoes, a pair of red slippers, a book, a box of 
candy, or something else. She always thanked him with words 
and kisses and smiles. 

She considered him the most generous of men and the most 
loving, as well as the best. She did not know, of course, that 
somewhere out in the big world, banished from his home, there 


UNCLE DICK. 


33 


were children, his children, “ out in the cold.” Had she known 
that this was so she would not have cared for the beautiful new 
dresses and hats with plumes, nor even for the red slippers. But 
it was well that she did not know, or she could not have led him 
so innocently, so beautifully. And so the weeks flew by until six 
had rolled into the past. 


5 


34 


SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER IV. 

BECKY. 

Mr. Dalzell had gone out on business : something that must 
be attended to although the weather was stingingly cold ; Pompey 
had accompanied him. So there were only two in the big house, 
Chloe in the kitchen singing at her work, “ ’cause I ’s so happy 
dat hebenly chile done come to lib wid us an’ show Massa Dalzell 
de way to heben,” and Sweetheart in the library. Ensconced in 
Uncle Dick’s big easy chair, with her little feet stretched out 
on his footstool, she was reading a wonderful story of a kind 
princess who, entering a home where a family of orphan children 
were crying bitterly from hunger and cold, took them all in her 
charge and placed them in a good family where they were well 
cared for: there were bright fires to warm them, and plenty of 
good food. There were smiles instead of tears on the children’s 
faces and joy took the place of sorrow in their hearts. The story 
ended abruptly with the old stereotyped phrase, “ And they were 
happy ever afterward.” 

Sweetheart closed the book and laid it down on a table near 
by. Clasping her hands over her knees, she sat thinking, with a 
far-away look in her eyes. 

Children of older growth smile over the old phrase, “ And 
they were happy ever afterward,” but to Sweetheart the words 


BECKY. 


35 


were like a song of triumph. A child of strong imagination, she 
seemed to see those two pictures clearly ; one a picture of misery, 
a group of motherless and fatherless children in poverty and rags, 
hungry and cold, the other a picture of comfort and of love. 

“I’d like to be a princess like that,” she thought, wistfully. 
“ I ’d like to make the faces of poor little children glow with joy. 
I ’d love to. I ’m an orphan too, but after papa and mamma died 
I had grandpa,” her eyes filling with tears at thought of him, 
“and now I have Uncle Dick, and even if I am an orphan I 
do n’t need any body else ; but perhaps there are some little 
orphans right here in the city just like those in the story. I 
wonder if there are ! I ’ll ask Chloe.” 

She ran into the kitchen, where she found the presiding 
genius of that domain in the act of removing a pan of biscuit and 
a “ hoe cake ” from the oven. 

“ Chloe,” she asked anxiously, “ do you suppose there are any 
poor little barefooted, ragged, hungry, cold orphans in this city 

“ Fo’ de Ian’ sake!” ejaculated that sable functionary, putting 
her pans of hot bread on the table and raising her arms tragically. 
“ Po’ lil’ bare-footed, ragged, hungry, col’ orphans I I sh’d think 
there was. Why, HI’ missie, dis city am full ob po’ HI’ barefooted 
col’ orphans.” 

That was sorrowful news to the loving-hearted child: “a 
city full of poor little barefooted cold and hungry orphans I” 

She accepted Chloe's statement literally. She ran to the 
window and looked out. 


SWEETHEART. 


36 

“ What yo’ doin’ ?” Chloe asked wonderingly. 

The child turned slowly — her eyes were wet with tears. 

“ I thought maybe I ’d see some of them, but I do n’t.” 

“ See some ob dem what T 

“ Orphans.” 

Chloe laughed. 

“ Sho’, now, I did n’t mean dose lil’ po’ orphans was every- 
whar, like de snow is — poked in all de corners and cracks and 
perched on de trees. Dey is in de city, hid away in creakin’ ole 
houses, away up in mis’able attic rooms, an’ down in de da’k 
cellars. Dey is in de streets, too, some ob dem, a walkin’ ’long wid 
dere lil’ bare feet an’ a shiverin’ in de winds.” 

Sweetheart shivered. 

“ Sometimes — not often — one ob dem comes to de do’ an 
asks for somethin’ to eat.” 

“ And then you bring her in, and give her everything good to 
eat,” the child said eagerly; “don’t you, Chloe?” 

Chloe wished she could say yes, but she was strictly truthful. 

“ Oh, no,” was her answer, “ I do n’t bring her in. I jess gib 
her a piece ob bread and col’ meat in her hand, or a cookie, and 
den I tell her to go ’long.” 

Sweetheart looked sorrowful. She looked surprised, too. 

“ And do n’t you even warm her, Chloe ?” with gentle reproof 
in her tone. 

Chloe had her reasons for her cool reception of beggars at 
the door, but she did not desire to prejudice the little girl against 


BECKY. 


37 


the “ massa,” who had forbidden the servants to encourage “ raga- 
muffins,” as he termed the stray waifs who occasionally ventured 
to rap at the back door. 

‘‘ No, I do n’t wa’m her,” she answered evasively. “ I don’t 
jess see my way clear to wa’m her.” 

“ Why,” observed the child in surprise, “ I should think it 
would be just as easy as anything. You could let her come right 
here, in this cosey little corner by the range — where I am. She ’d 
get warm here quick — would n’t she !” 

“ Yes,” was the answer, “ I guess she’d get wa’m, lil’ missie,” 
adding, however, in her own mind, “if she had a chance.” 

Sweetheart went back to the library. She looked out of the 
window, wondering when Uncle Dick would come. It was snow- 
ing, and the wind blew strongly. Suddenly the little girl became 
much interested in some one who was struggling with the iron 
gate, trying to open it. At last it yielded sufficiently to leave an 
opening, through which a child crept. She was a miserable look- 
ing little girl, just such a one as Sweetheart had been reading 
about in the story. Her tattered dress fluttered in the wind. 
She had no hood, only a thin old shawl wrapped over her shoul- 
ders with one end thrown over her head. Her hands were bare, 
and blue with cold, and presently the little girl looking out of 
the window saw with dismay that the feet of the child outside wore 
neither shoes nor stockings. 

“ Oh,” she cried out, “ oh, she ’s just such an orphan as I 
read about ! Oh, how I wish I was a princess !” 


SWEETHEART. 


3S 

Tears rushed into her eyes. But her pity was not mere 
feeling, content with the regret that the poor were poor, the 
cold were cold, the hungry were hungry, and making no effort 
to have it otherwise; it took active form immediately. Her 
thought was, 

“ She ’s going to the back door. I do n’t want Chloe just to 
give her a piece of bread and cold meat and tell her to ‘ go on,’ 
because she ’s ’most froze, poor little dear ! I ’ll let her in the 
front door.” 

She ran to the latter and struggled with the lock, mastering 
the huge key until, to her great joy, it turned, and she opened 
the door. 

The intention of the child outside, who was famished with 
hunger, had been to “go around to the back-door,” but as the 
huge front door swung open as far as the strong guard chain 
would allow she stood dazed, looking in. What she saw was a 
lovely child in a crimson dress with white lace falling about her 
fair throat and with golden curls waving about a radiant face. 
What Sweetheart saw was a forlorn little figure that looked like 
a bundle of rags swaying in the wind. One pitiful little arm was 
raised in an effort to keep the corner of an old shawl over the 
frowsy head. Little feet, blue and stiff from cold, peeped out 
from beneath the rags. A dirty tear-stained face, with big, 
startled hungry eyes, looked into her own questioningly. The 
old shawl had slipped down from her head, revealing a mop of 
tangled black hair. 


BECKY. 


39 


“ Come right in,” called Sweetheart with eager hospitality. 
“ I ’m glad to see you,” smiling sweetly. 

“ Eh V' said the waif staring at the beautiful child stupidly 
and incredulously. 

She was startled at the invitation, and believed there must 
be a mistake. 

“ Come right in,” Sweetheart repeated, the smile still linger- 
ing. “You can just bend your head a little and creep under 
the chain, seeing Pompey is n’t here to unloose it. There,” 
holding up the heavy guard with both of her small dimpled 
hands ; “ creep right under.” 

The waif did so, and the door closed. She could hardly 
believe the evidence of her senses that she was really “inside;” 
she who during all her poor little life had only known the “ out- 
side ” of all that was sweet and beautiful. 

“Come into the library,” said the little hostess. 

But the waif drew back, frowning. 

“ I can’t,” she answered hoarsely. “ I dassent ; the folks ’d 
drive me out.” 

“ What folks in surprise. 

“ Yours; your father an’ mother, and all of ’em.” 

“ My father and mother are in heaven,” explained Sweet- 
heart. “ I haven’t any folks except Uncle Dick, and he isn’t here. 
But, if he were, he would n’t drive you out for all the world. 
Do n’t you know Uncle Dick.?” 

“ No.” 


40 


SWEETHEART. 


“ Well, I ’ll tell you all about him. He ’s the best man in 
all the world — the very best.” 

“ Ain’t there any body here but you T' wonderingly. 

“ Chloe’s in the kitchen, but there ’s no one in the library. 
Come in, my dear, and get nice and warm. We ’ll have a good 
time together.” 

“ Eh T exclaimed the waif stupidly, feeling somehow that, in 
some mysterious way, she was being lifted up, up, up, and yet 
believing that it was impossible that the lovely little girl would 
think of associating with her. “ Did you call me ‘ my dear 1 
You didn’t; did yer.? And you didn’t mean you an I ’d have a 
good time together ; did yer wistfully. 

Sweetheart laughed softly. “ Yes,” she answered, “ I called 
you ‘my dear.’ You look so cold and — and — ” hesitating, “and 
hungry, I feel that you are ‘ my dear.’ And of course we ’ll 
have a good time together,” smiling reassuringly. “ Little girls 
always do have a good time together ; do n’t they T 

The waif made no answer. Her poor little starved heart felt 
a great throb of joy. To be actually called “my dear”! No one 
had ever called her that before. She forgot that she was cold 
and hungry, she only thought of those wonderful words — wonder- 
ful to her — “ my dear.” They rang in her soul like the chimes of 
sweet bells, “ my dear 1 my dear I” 

But she did not think that little girls always do have a nice 
time together, as Sweetheart had said. The little girls she knew 
were often in trouble, or scolding, or actually fighting. But she 


BECKY. 


41 


had no time for mental soliloquy, the little hostess actually had 
hold of one of her cold hands and was leading her into a warm, 
beautiful room, where she gave her a seat in a cushioned chair 
near a glowing fire. 

“ You ’re hungry ; aren’t you ?” asked Sweetheart, anxious to 
relieve at the earliest possible moment. The guest moved uneasily 
in her chair, fixing her big, wondering, hungry eyes on the ques- 
tioner. 

“Hungry!” she repeated, “hungry! I’m a’most starved, I 

am.” 

“ Did n’t you have much breakfast T' pityingly. 

“ Did n’t hev none ; did n’t hev no supper las’ night, nor din- 
ner yeste’dy, nor breakfus.” 

“ Poor little girl !” 

There was a depth of pity in her tone not often seen in 
a child of her tender years. She had been wondering how to 
suggest asking her guest to wash her dirty face, but she under- 
stood now that this was no time to stand upon ceremony. 

“ If the poor dear hasn’t had anything to eat since day before 
yesterday she must be starved,” was her thought ; “ this isn’t 
the right time to talk about washing faces.” Then aloud, with 
gentle courtesy, “You ’ll not mind waiting here alone while I go 
and bring you a nice lunch, will you ?” 

“ Wont nobody come ?” anxiously. 

“ I guess not.” 

“ Then I do n’t mind.” 

6 


42 


SWEETHEART. 


“ I thought you would n’t but running to the sofa she 
brought forth a doll, which she put into her guest’s arms. “ There ’s 
Alexandra ; she ’ll amuse you while I ’m gone.” After which she 
danced off to the kitchen. 

“ Chloe,” said she, “ I ’ve got company — a little girl who is 
cold and hungry. Can I have a lovely little lunch of the best 
things you ’ve got } Can I, Chloe T eagerly. 

Chloe was very busy just then, sewing up a stuffed fowl. 
Supposing the company referred to was the doll, “ Alexandra,” 
she answered with a chuckle of merriment, 

“ Sho’ nuff, lil’ missie, yo’ kin hab all de nice HI’ lunch yo’ 
want,” looking affectionately into the radiant face; “but ef yo’ is 
in a hurry jess he’p yo’seff, honey. Go right in dat pantry an’ 
see what I ’s bin bakin’ dis mawnin’, an’ jess he’p yo’seff, honey.” 

Sweetheart lost no time in “helping herself,” the result of 
which was that she was soon back in the library with the daintiest 
and most delicious lunch that had ever been placed before her 
guest. The latter stared at her curiously as she placed the small 
tray of food upon her knees. 

“ Yer do n’t mean it’s all fer me, do yer she questioned in a 
hoarse whisper, the hungry look deepening in her big eyes. 

“Yes; of course I mean it for you. It’s all for you; every 
bit,” reassuringly. 

It was pitiful to see the manner in which that poor starved 
little creature ate that lunch. She was ravenously hungry, and 
when it was placed before her — smelling so delightfully — it was 












BECKY. 


43 


almost more than she could do to let it alone until she found out 
that it was really meant for her. 

There was a generous allowance of cold chicken, some but- 
tered biscuit still warm from the oven, a fresh patty-pan sponge 
cake and some cranberry jelly. Every mouthful of food had dis- 
appeared during the few moments it took Sweetheart to go to 
the kitchen and make a cup of bouillon. She had learned how 
to make bouillon and chocolate during her grandfather’s sickness. 

When she came in with the cup of bouillon she came near 
upsetting the contents in her surprise. She had never supposed 
any one could eat so fast. She had considered her lunch a boun- 
tiful one, but she changed her mind. 

“ 1 ought to have brought more,” she said to herself ; “ she 
has n’t had anything before since day before yesterday. Of course 
she’s awful hungry, just like the orphans in the story. I’ll get 
her something more.” 

She ran back to the pantry. Chloe was still busy with the 
chickens, so she resolved not to trouble her but look around to 
see what she could find. There were two cold sweet potatoes 
on a saucer, three jam tarts on a small plate, and a mince turnover 
on the lower shelf. She took all these eatables into the library 
to the guest, who tried her best to eat them slowly but could not 
possibly do so. She ate this like the first installment — ravenously. 

Sweetheart busied herself around the room while the waif was 
eating, so as not to appear to be watching her, but her thoughts 
ran after this fashion : 


44 


SWEETHEART. 


“ May be she ’s hollow. Poor little dear ! Poor little dear f 
But, any way, I ’ll fill her up.” 

After the guest was warmed and fed it occurred to Sweet- 
heart that there was something else for her to do. 

“ She ’s the very ‘ least of these,’ ” was the compassionate 
thought, “ I ’ve fed and warmed her, and I ‘ took her in ’ when 
she was a ‘ stranger ;’ but there ’s that verse, ‘ I was naked and ye 
clothed me.’ I guess Jesus meant when the ‘least of these’ 
was half naked, too.” Taking the tray with its empty dishes into 
the kitchen she said to Chloe, 

“ Oh, I thank you, Chloe, for all the good things you let me 
have for my company. I ’ll come and wash her dishes all nice and 
clean after she ’s gone. Will that do ?” 

Chloe laughed. 

“ Sho’ now, honey, neber mind de dishes. I ’ll see to dem, 
shuah. How come yo’ so hung’y dis mawnin’, lil’ missie.?” 

“ I have n’t been eating anything since breakfast. I was n’t 
hungry, Chloe ; it was my company. T never saw any one so 
hungry before. She ate, and ate, and ate.” 

“ I neber knew a doll baby to eat like dat doll baby — El-zan- 
der — befo’. El-zan-der ’ll be sick, lil’ missie,” chuckling. 

Sweetheart’s cheery laugh rang out. 

“ Why, Chloe, did you think I was feeding Alexandra .f* I 
was n’t. I ’ve got real company, a real little girl, one of those 
orphans you told me about — barefooted and all. I let her in at 
the front door.” 


BECKY. 


45 


A scared look came into the old woman’s face. 

“ Dear me !” she ejaculated, throwing down the knife with 
which she had been working. “ Yo’ do n’t mean to say, lil’ missie, 
yo’ let a rag’muflfin inter dat front do’ all yo’ own seff, wid massa 
gone an’ Pomp, too ! Dat was wrong, lil’ missie.” 

A look of sorrow at the reproof clouded the sweet face for 
a moment, and then vanished as suddenly as it had come. She 
ran out of the room and back again, bringing with her a little 
Bible bound in russet, with her name, “ Sweetheart,” on the cover 
in letters of gold. 

“ I beg your pardon, Chloe, but you ’re mistaken,” she said 
gently; “it says,” reading eagerly from the 25th chapter of the 
Gospel of Matthew, “ ‘ For I was an hungered, and ye gave me 
meat. I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink. I was a stranger, 
and ye took me in ; naked, and ye clothed me.’ It was Jesus 
talking, so I was n’t doing wrong ; was I, Chloe T' 

Chloe looked into the glowing face. 

“ No,” she answered in a voice not quite steady ; “ yo was 
doin jess right, lil’ missie ; jess right.” But she left her work to 
follow Sweetheart into the library to see the guest, who, catching 
sight of her dusky face, looked frightened, and felt as if she would 
like to sink through the floor. Chloe’s voice, however, reassured 
her. 

“ I’s glad lil’ missie done wa’m an’ feed yo,” she said kindly; 
then she returned to her domain, after telling Sweetheart in a 
whisper to let her guest out of the back door whenever she was 


46 


SWEETHEART. 


ready to go. There was a mist over her eyes as she resumed her 
work in the kitchen. 

“ Dat blessed lamb!” she said. “ Dat blessed lamb! It was 
de Lawd himseff dat sent her here, fo’ shuah. She ’s a leadin’ 
us all — ole Massa, an Pomp, an dis ole black niggah, Chloe — ’long 
de way dat ’ll land us in Jerusalem de golden.” 

“ What ’s your name asked the hostess, as soon as the two 
children were alone. 

“ Becky.” 

“ Becky what 

“ Jus’ Becky.” 

Sweetheart thought it very strange that her guest’s name 
was “Jus’ Becky ” and nothing else, but she was too gently 
polite to say so. 

“ Where do you live 

“ Nowhere.” 

It was impossible for the hostess to restrain the expression 
of surprise this time. 

“ Nowhere !” she repeated. “ Why, are n’t you mistaken ? 
Folks have to live somewhere.” 

“ Some folks do, but I do n’t. I wish I did.” 

“ Where do you wish you lived 

“ Here her little bedraggled form sinking back into the 
depths of the comfortable chair. 


^^LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELFN 


47 


CHAPTER V. 

“THOU SHALT LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF.’* 

“ I WISH SO too,” said Sweetheart hospitably. “ Now,” she 
continued, not having given up her desire to “clothe the naked” 
and yet not liking to leave her guest alone, “you can hold 
Alexandra again while I go and hunt up something.” 

Sweetheart was the soul of honor. Child though she was she 
would not have thought of giving away the dresses and other 
articles of clothing which “Uncle Dick ” had recently presented 
to her, but there were other clothes : those she had brought from 
Nebraska; a big trunk full of them. From these she resolved to 
select something for the “ least of these.” She wondered what 
Chloe would say if she should ask her to let Becky have a bath in 
the servants’ bath-room off the kitchen. “ I could comb her hair 
my own self,” she thought kindly, “ but it ’s in a dreadful mess, 
all tangled up. I ’d get it smooth some way.” 

While her hands were busy getting the clothing, and her 
mind occupied with loving thought for the guest, Richard Dalzell 
came home. Throwing off his fur-lined overcoat, seal cap and 
muffler, he hurried into the library, glad to be again out of the 
reach of the “ weather ” and anxious to greet Sweetheart. A 
little face looked up at him, but it was not Sweetheart’s ; it was a 
face old and thin, with big scared grey eyes and crowned with a 


48 


SWEETHEART. 


mop of tangled black hair. A little figure got up quickly, and 
shuffled backward into a corner as the gentleman’s eyes fixed 
themselves upon her sternly. 

“ Who are you T he asked gruffly. 

“ Becky, sir.” 

This of course did not enlighten him, but he did not repeat 
the question. 

“ What are you doing here 1 Who brought you into this 
room The words were not as harsh as his manner; he was 
very much disturbed. 

“ I ain’t doin nothin’, sir,” deprecatingly. “ I ’m just a waitin 
fer her. She brung me in here.” 

“ Whom do you mean you ’re waiting for T angrily. “ Who 
brought you in here } The colored woman T 

“ I did n’t see no colored woman, sir. ’Twas the little girl 
brung me in here. I do n’t know what her name is. She did n’t 
tell me. But she looks like an angel — jus’ like one — with yellow 
hair a shinin’ jus’ like gold, an’ eyes so blue and sweet an’ — an’ 
lovin’. She — she — called me ‘ my dear.’ Nobody ever called me 
‘ my dear ’ before. I ’ll never forget it ; I wont ; I ’d die fer her, 
I would.” 

She had forgotten her fear in talking about the ministering 
child. The grey eyes under the mop of tangled hair looked at 
him strangely, as if her soul had suddenly awakened under the 
touch of that little hand and was regarding him. 

An answering gleam came into the gentleman’s eyes. He 


^^LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF” 


49 


was astonished, and yet strangely moved. His anger and vexa- 
tion were gone. He looked at the “ stranger ” critically and yet 
kindly, as if studying her from head to foot. Nothing in her man- 
ner, dress, or want of dress escaped him, from the thin drawn face 
with its black crown to the dirty bare feet. 

“Come here,” said he; “ sit down,” pointing to the low chair 
she had previously occupied. 

She obeyed. He sat down opposite her. 

“ What else did the little girl who ‘ looks like an angel ’ do 
for you .f*” he questioned with a grim smile. 

“ Oh my ! Oh my ! she jus’ did everything,” clapping softly 
her frail dirty hands while a look of great joy came into her eyes, 
making them, for the time being, beautiful. “ I was so cold, oh 
so cold ! I thought I was freezin’, an’ she brought me out of the 
dreadful storm. An’ I was hungry, oh, so hungry ! I thought 
I ’d die, I did. It seemed as if somethin’ was a gnawin’ me in- 
side. Why, I had n’t had anythin’ to eat since day before yeste’- 
day, an’ then on’y a crust. I would n’t ’a’ had that if Jim Brown’s 
dog had n’t left it.”^ 

A shudder passed through the listener’s frame. 

“ When I come along here she let me in. I was awful glad 
to get out of the cold, but I did n’t wanter come in here, in this 
room.” 

“Why not.?” 

“ I was ’fraid.” 

“ What made you afraid ?” 

7 


50 


SWEETHEART. 


“ I ’ve bin’ pounded so, an’ kicked, an’ — ” 

He interrupted her. 

“ You did n’t think any one in this house would abuse a little 
child; did you.f*” looking at her kindly and — I must, say it — tenderly. 

“ I did n’t know till she told me. She said she did n’t have 
any folks ’cept her ‘ Uncle Dick,’ an’ she said he would n’t drive 
me out fer all the world.” 

A look such as women have when tears are about to start 
came into Richard Dalzell’s fine dark eyes, but no tears came ; it 
was the soul of the grown man responding to the soul of a little 
child. 

“ She said he was the ‘ best man in all the world.’ I guess 
you’re her ‘ Uncle Dick ;’ aint yer 

“ You ’ve guessed right,” he answered. “But tell me what 
the little girl who you think ‘looks like an angel’ did for you 
after she let you in } Did she give you something to eat V' 

“Yes, indeed, she did,” was her answer. “ Oh my! Oh my! 
I had a feast, I did. She brought me everything, she did, jus’ as 
if I was somebody, an’ I ain’t, you know. I ’m nobody. I had 
chicken, real chicken, and biscuits with real butter on ’em, an’ 
cake, an’ cranberries, an’ everything. Sech lots of things ! Oh 
my ! sech lots of ’em !” 

“ Did you eat it all 

“ Yes, every bit. I could n’t help eatin’ every crumb. I didn’t 
wanter be a pig — with her aseein’ me — but I was so awful hungry 
that I had ter be one.” 


k 


LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELFY 


51 


“ Oh, Uncle Dick !” 

It was Sweetheart’s delighted exclamation as she entered the 
room. She had her arms full of clothing, but she dropped it all 
to welcome the old man, whom she already loved dearly. She 
threw her arms around his neck, kissing his cheeks — first one and 
then the other. 

“ I ’m so glad you ’ve come. This,” pointing to the stranger, 
“ is Becky.” 

“ Becky and I are already acquainted,” he said, drawing 
Sweetheart close to his heart for one brief moment and then 
letting her go. 

“ Oh,” said she, “ you did n’t wait to be introduced, did you } 
Neither did she and I. We just needed each other — she needed 
me, and I needed her — so we did n’t wait to be introduced. I 
do n’t think people ought to wait to be introduced when they 
need each other; do you, Uncle Dick?” 

“No,” he answered; but he had not the faintest idea what 
she meant by “ needing ” Becky, although it was plain enough, 
he thought, for a man stone blind to see how greatly the miser- 
able Becky had needed her — Sweetheart. He was deeply touched 
by what he had seen and heard. The kindness and tender sym- 
pathy of the little lass who had so recently come into his heart 
and home seemed greater than one could expect from her 
years, and yet these qualities were spontaneous, adding to their 
grace and beauty. Evidently Sweetheart did not realize that any 
impassable gulf lay between herself and her guest. All that had 


52 


SWEETHEART. 


entered into her mind had been the thought that the waif needed 
her help and must have it. And what she had meant by her 
needing Becky was that her heart was so full of compassion for 
the poor orphan that she “ needed ” her as an outlet for her 
tenderness. Still she could not have expressed herself in this 
way even if Mr. Dalzell had asked her what she meant. 

She picked up the bundle of clothes that she had thrown on 
the floor and brought them to him. 

“You will not care if I give Becky these clothes; will you, 
Uncle Dick.?” she said, not thinking that he would have the least 
objection. 

“ But, my dear, those are your own clothes. What are you 
going to do if you give Becky your clothes 

She threw her arms around his neck. 

“ I have so many clothes,” she said, “ and she has n’t any ex- 
cept what are on her. She — ” her voice sinking into a whisper, 
“is the ‘least of th^se,’ and — don’t you see, Uncle Dick.? — Jesus’ 
eyes are looking right out of Becky’s, and he ’s saying, ‘ I was 
naked, and ye clothed me.’ She is n’t exactly naked, but she ’s 
next thing to it. Poor Becky! I’m so sorry for her. Uncle 
Dick.” 

Her changing face, now smiling, now sorrowful, and again 
tearful, as she talked about the waif, stirred him deeply. What- 
ever she did, whatever she said, was lovely in his eyes. 

“ A little child shall lead them.” A little child was leading 
him. Her loving nature and caressing ways, her thoughtfulness 


^^LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELFY 


53 


of others and her ready power of expressing her feelings, while un- 
usual in one of her age, were altogether charming. 

“ You can do as you please with your own things, my dear,” 
he said. 

Sweetheart kissed him again, and then took Becky by the 
hand and led her out of the room. 

“ Where be we a goin’ asked the waif wonderingly. 

“ You’ll see,” said Sweetheart smiling. 

Presently they, hand in hand, entered the kitchen. 

“ Goin’, is she T' observed Chloe. 

“ Oh, no,” was Sweetheart’s answer, “ not yet. I have a favor 
to ask of you, Chloe,” and she said something close to Chloe’s ear, 
in a low voice. 

“ Well, honey, shuah ’s I ’se born yo’ do n’t do t’ings by 
ha’ves — yo’ don’t! I wont say no to yo’, lil’ missie, dat I wont. 
Ef yo’ kin feed her, an’ wa’m her, and clothe her, I ain’t goin’ ter 
say I wont wash her for de Lord’s sake, dat I wont.” 

So she dropped her work, and taking Becky into the ser- 
vants’ bath-room she gave her such a cleansing as she had never 
known. After which Sweetheart came in, and together they 
dressed her. Chloe, with much difficulty, combed out the tangled 
hair and braided it. Sweetheart tying the braids with pretty new 
.pink ribbons. Becky was quiet during these operations, only 
speaking when spoken to, but when all was done, and Sweetheart 
led her into her own little room and told her to look into the long 
dressing-glass, her tongue was loosened. Her happiness was so 


54 


SWEETHEART. 


great that it was pathetic to witness, aye, almost painful. Sudden- 
ly she burst into tears. Sweetheart was troubled. Tears came 
into her eyes, too, but she put her arms around her guest and 
kissed her cheek. 

“ What’s the matter, my dear.?” she asked gently. “ Are you 

sick 

Becky dashed the tears away, and a smile broke over her 
face, a wonderful smile, that illumined it and made it beautiful. 

“ The matter is — oh, I dunno what it is. I ’m so happy — so 
happy !’’ she said. “ I ’m pretty ; ain’t I .?” looking into the glass. 

“ Yes, very pretty,” said Sweetheart, admiring Becky in her 
present condition with all her heart. 

“ I never was pretty before,” continued Becky, in a tone of 
surprise. “ I ’ve alius looked like a scarecrow. No, I aint sick, 
I ’m on’y happy. I did n’t know folks could be so happy. But 
yer didn’t give me these clo’es ter keep — did yer.? Course yer 
didn’t.” 

“Oh, yes; they’re yours to keep. Come, now, I want Uncle 
Dick to see how nice you look.” 

Again they went hand in hand down stairs and into the libra- 
ry, stopping before Mr. Dalzell, but not saying a word. The gen- 
tleman looked up from his paper to find two pairs of eyes regard- 
ing him questioningly : one pair, the blue ones, unutterably 
sweet, the other pair, the gray ones, indescribably glad and grate- 
ful. But his eyes lingered for some time on the little girl with 
the gray eyes. The transformation wrought was wonderful — in 


^^LOVE THY NEIGHBOR JS THYSELF:’ SS 

his soul he called it heavenly. The little wan face was glowing. 
The mass of tangled hair was gone, and in its place were pretty 
purply-black braids tied with rosy ribbons. The old damp rags 
had disappeared, and soft warm clothing had taken their place. 
The little bare feet were covered now with stockings and with 
Sweetheart’s pretty crimson felt bath-slippers, for the time, as none 
of her shoes were large enough to fit Becky’s feet, which had been 
neglected all her little life. 

Strange, the working of these minds of ours ! 

As Mr. Dalzell’s heart took in the picture before him its 
great beauty thrilled him ; and not only that, but it brought be- 
fore him a passage of Holy Scripture that he had not thought 
of for many years : “ Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all 
thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and 
with all thy strength. This is the first and great commandment ; 
and the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as 
thyself !” 

Sweetheart had taught him another lesson, but in her inno- 
cence she did not know it. 

“Isn’t Becky pretty, Uncle Dick!” she said, after waiting 
for him to speak. 

“ Beautiful,” he answered ; but he was not thinking of Becky, 
he meant Sweetheart. And as he looked at the picture before 
him, the ministering child and the “least of these,” other 
thoughts came, some of them connected with a block of tenement 
houses which Greer had charge of. He did not know much 


56 


SWEETHEART. 


about the tenants in that old block, he had not cared to, but still 
over and over the words rang in his soul, 

“ Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” 

“ I have not loved my neighbors,” he thought regretfully ; “ I 
have hated them.” 

The dear child’s loving spirit, showing itself in constant 
acts of kindness, in contrast with his long life of selfishness, 
touched the man’s heart as nothing had ever done before. 
He saw the spirit of Christ reflected in her, and longed to be 
like Him. He was no longer “outside,” under the storm of 
unbelief, but in some mysterious way found himself within the 
shelter of Christian anchorage. A silent prayer went up from his 
heart, 

‘‘ Forgive me, O my God ; forgive me! And, oh, I do thank 
thee that thou didst send that little child to lead me.” 

And who was the “ neighbor ” that he had been taught to 
love ? 


“Thy neighbor? It is one whom thou 
Hast power to aid and bless, 

Whose aching heart and burning brow 
Thy soothing hand may press. 


“Thy neighbor ? 'T is the fainting poor, 
Whose eye with want is dim, 

Whom hunger sends from door to door ; 
Go thou and succor him. 


‘‘LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELFY 


57 


“ Thy neighbor? 'T is the heart bereft 
Of every earthly gem ; 

Widow and orphan helpless left ; 

Go thou and shelter them. 

“ Thy neighbor? ’T is that wearied man, 
Whose years are at their brim, 

Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain ; 
Go thou and comfort him." 


SWEETHEART. 


5S 


CHAPTER VI. 

A VISIT TO THE “EAST END.” 

When Mr. Dalzell fell asleep Sweetheart’s words, “ And, 
do n’t you see. Uncle Dick, Jesus’ eyes are looking right out of 
Becky’s.*^” rang in his ears. It was quite late, past midnight, 
when sleep overtook him, and then he had dreams one after 
another. Such strange dreams ! He saw Silas Platt, the man 
whose letter you saw him toss into the waste basket unopened. 
And in his dream Silas was looking at him with “Jesus’ eyes.” 
Silas talked to him, too. He said, “ I was sick, and ye visited 
me not.” “ I was hungry, and ye gave me no meat.” 

Then the face of Silas receded into the background, and 
other faces, many of them, looked into his. He did not know 
them, but he thought perhaps they belonged in his tenement 
at the “ East End.” They were wan and haggard faces, the faces 
of the fainting and sorrowful poor, but each and all had “Jesus’ 
eyes ” looking at him piercingly. Then they all opened their 
mouths, and cried out, with a moaning voice, “Inasmuch as ye 
did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.” 

The first thing he did the following morning was to send a 
check to poor Silas Platt, who had cheated him years ago and 
whom he had never forgiven. But he had forgiven him at last. 
Silas was a man whose years were “at their brim, bent low with 


A VISIT TO THE EAST END.” 


59 


sickness, cares, and pain,” but when the letter and check reached 
him he fell upon his poor old knees, thanked God, and took 
courage. One more thing he did ; namely, asked God to bless 
Richard Dalzell. 

Before noon that eventful day a cab took Mr. Dalzell to the 
“ East End ” where he made a tour of his tenement. He was 
exceedingly weary when it was all over, but he was glad, very 
glad. He had considerable trouble with his eyes that morning; 
they would get dim and misty, and he had to keep wiping them 
almost constantly, his eyes and his nose, but he laid it all to the 
weather. 

But the weather was not to blame in the least — not in the 
least ; the matter was that he had opened his heart to some One 
who had been “ knocking, knocking ” there for years. 

He looked out of the tenement windows upon smoke-black- 
ened tiles and battered chimney-pots and down into a foul alley, 
reeking with filth. He looked within at pictures of misery and 
sorrow which filled his awakened heart with pain. He stood 
dumb sometimes, and often dazed, at what was revealed to him. 
Want and misery were written everywhere, in the faces of little 
children, in the despairing faces of women, in the neglected 
rooms. A sick man — seemingly sick unto death — lay on a filthy 
rickety bed, with no one to lift a finger for him. Yesterday Mr. 
Dalzell would have felt contaminated to have touched him, but 
to-day, with that picture of Sweetheart and the “stranger” she 
had “ taken in ” in his soul, he even went so far as to kneel down 


6o 


SWEETHEART. 


by the bedside and say, with a great wave of tenderness flowing 
over him, 

“ My poor fellow !” 

“ Who are you ?” asked the dying man. 

“Your friend,” he said, and added in his heart, “your neigh- 
bor.” 

And, strange to say, although he had just found the “ way ” 
himself he pointed it out to the dying man. He secured a man 
whom he found in the hall (and who told him that he was “ out 
of work”) to take care of him. He sent for a doctor, too, who 
said the man might linger for a month. So he made him as 
comfortable as he could, sending out for a clean cot with bedding, 
etc., and he ordered broth sent in, and jellies, and crackers, and 
fruit. 

“ Who are you T asked the dying man just as Mr. Dalzell 
was about to leave. 

“ Your friend,” was the answer as before. 

“You’re so good, so good,” said the man gratefully, “that 
perhaps you won’t mind if I tell you something.” 

“ Go on, my friend : what is it ?” 

“ They ’re going to turn me out of here ; that ’s tough, is n’t 
it, when I ’m dying !” 

“ Who is going to turn you out ?” 

“ Greer. Do you know Greer T 

“Yes, I know him well,” his face flushed hotly; “but he’ll 
not turn you out, my poor fellow ! I ’ll promise you that.” 


A VISIT TO THE EAST ENDE 


6i 


“ Are you sure ?” hopefully. 

“ Perfectly sure.” 

Tears rolled out of the sick man’s eyes — tears of joy and 
relief. 

“ God bless you,” said he ; “ God bless you.” 

In the next room Mr. Dalzell found a sick mother with five 
small children huddled around a little stove, trying to keep warm. 
The husband and father was dead. There was not a mouthful 
to eat, and the children were crying from hunger and cold. Mr. 
Dalzell talked with the mother a little while, and then left. To 
her great surprise and joy a hamper of provisions and half a ton 
of coal were brought to her a half hour later. 

But these were only a few pictures of many. Little pale 
wan faces looked up into Mr. Dalzell’s face and smiled because 
he had given them a helping hand. Sad-faced mothers blessed 
him, even men looked at him gratefully, for in one way or another 
he had lifted part of the burdens from their shoulders. 

He resolved to have the tenement thoroughly repaired and 
cleansed, which resolve was carried out within the next two 
months. He felt better than he had for years, when he went out 
of the tenement and took a cab for home. He was beginning 
to taste the sweetness of that grace of which a wise man has 
said, 

“It is twice blessed : 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” 


62 


SWEETHEART. 


He had already begun to grow, though imperfectly, into the 
likeness of his “ Elder Brother,” in whose name he had been 
ministering. He had already begun to study the book of heav- 
enly love, “ sweet Charity,” and the first lesson in it, as well 
as the last, was to “ love his neighbor as himself.” It had always 
seemed to him an uncalled-for demand, an impossibility to attain, 
but there was a light shining on it now. God is Love, and he 
must be His child. 

When he reached home Sweetheart met him at the door 
with a kiss. 

“ Lunch is all ready,” she said, “and, oh, Uncle Dick, Becky 
is a great help already ; Chloe says so.” 

“ But, my dear, I did n’t want Becky to work, you know, until 
plenty of good food should make her strong.” 

“Yes, I know, and Chloe knew, too ; but we just couldn’t 
help Becky doing things, she wanted to so much. And, Uncle 
Dick, she says she feels strong already; she says she ’s so happy 
she must do something.” 

That was exactly the case with Becky, whom Mr. Dalzell 
had not the heart to turn adrift when he found that she really 
had no home — only a barrel under a factory shed, with an old 
carpet thrown over it. 

“ You need some one to help you,” he said to Chloe, “so just 
teach Becky ; will you T 

And Chloe, in great glee, had promised, while Sweetheart, 
standing by, had clapped her hands, saying. 


A VISIT TO THE EAST end:’ 63 

“Didn’t I tell you, Becky, that Uncle Dick was the best 
man in the world? He is; isn’t he!” 

“ The very best,” answered Becky. 

It seemed to the poor child that she had been carried into 
another world — a beautiful world, where it would always be warm 
and where she would always have something good to eat. She 
would have thanked God had she known there was a God, but 
she did not. She reached out her thin little arms, however, that 
first night after getting into the nice white bed that Chloe told 
her was to belong to her, reached them upward with a longing 
gesture, but she could not have told you what for, except that she 
was so happy. 

The gulf between the miserable past and the blissful present 
was immense; the former with its hunger, cold and abuse, its lone- 
liness and homelessness, and the latter with its unutterable com- 
fort and joy and safety. And the very next day, after her lovely 
sleep in that snow-white bed, she found out about God — that he 
was her Father — and she cried for joy. 

Sweetheart was shocked when she discovered that Becky was 
really a heathen; she had not known of the heathen right in our 
midst, but she w'as too gently courteous to let Becky know she 
was shocked. She sat right down beside her, and held one of her 
hands while she told her a beautiful story that we all know. It 
began after this fashion : “ Once, a long tln>e ago, a very long time 
ago, a beautiful baby-boy was born into this world — ” 

But I will not repeat it to you, you know it so well. I must 


64 


SWEETHEART. 


tell you, however, that it made a deep impression on Becky, so 
deep that from that time on she began to reach out her little arms 
trustingly, gratefully and lovingly to her Father. 

After lunch was over Mr. Dalzell went into the library, and 
being very tired he threw himself down on the lounge. Presently 
he fell asleep. When he awakened his eyes fell upon Sweetheart, 
sitting not far off on her small chair mending his socks. The 
sight was so pleasant and restful that it brought tears to his eyes. 
He did not speak, but lay quite still watching her. 

Her happiness was great when she was thus occupied, for it 
was the delight of her heart to do something for Uncle Dick, who, 
she said to herself, “ was all she had in the world since grandpa 
died.” Presently she looked up and caught his eye. Then she 
drew her chair closer to the couch, but continued her mending. 

“ Are you too tired to talk ?” she asked gently. 

“ Oh, no,” he answered with a smile. “ What shall I say 

Her happy laughter rang out, the sweetness of which had 
changed the whole atmosphere of the household. The mere sound 
of it now lifted the tired man up in some mysterious but delight- 
ful way. 

“ I guess I want to talk myself, after all,” she said. “ I want 
to tell you about Becky.” 

She chatted away, and he listened as attentively as if he, too, 
did not have a story to tell. But he kept his story in his heart; 
it was better so. She would have been very sad if he had told her 


A VISIT TO THE EAST END. 


6S 

about the little pale faces he had seen that day. He did not want 
her to be sad, only glad ; she should never be anything else if he 
could help it. As she chatted on he thought how the invasion of 
this “ little woman,” who was darning her socks and sewing the 
buttons on his shirts, had changed the whole aspect of the house, 
whose charm they all felt, from himself down to little Becky. 


9 


66 


SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER VII. 

MARGUERITE SEYMOUR. 

Mr. Dalzell had a severe rheumatic attack, which lasted all 
through March, keeping him a prisoner. Sweetheart was devoted 
to him during the long siege, which for once in his life he bore 
somewhat patiently. 

When he did not feel equal to the exertion of going out to the 
dining-room to his meals she brought them in. Sometimes she 
would spread a cloth on a low table in the library, preparing his 
lunch with her own hands, he looking on happy and content. 
With a long fork she would toast his bread by the grate fire, and 
then, after buttering it, she would scramble or poach him an egg 
in the chafing-dish she had brought from Nebraska. She made 
him chocolate, too, and sometimes bouillon, just as he preferred. 
If he wanted an oyster-stew — which he often did — she would make 
it in the chafing-dish, and felt, while doing so, as happy as a queen. 
Then, while he was eating, her cheery talk was better than pepsin 
to aid his digestion. April came in, with balmy days, and Mr. 
Dalzell grew better each day. 

One night, as Sweetheart sat reading out of her little Bible, 
which was her usual custom before retiring, he called to her. 

“ Why do n’t you read to me?” he asked. 

She looked up smiling. 










MARGUERITE SEYMOUR. 67 

“ Oh,” she said, “ do you want me to read my Bible verses to 
you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I used to read them to grandpa ; it will seem like old times 
to read them to you. Uncle Dick.” 

“ All right,” he observed, “ go on, my dear.” 

She moved her chair close to his couch, and began : 

“ Then came Peter to him, and said. Lord, how oft shall my 
brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? 
Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee. Until seven times; 
but, Until seventy times seven.” 

She and her grandfather used to talk together about the verses, 
so, as this reading revived “ old times,” she paused, remarking, 

“Jesus wants us to forgive a good many times ; doesn’t he, 
Uncle Dick?” 

“ It seems so,” he answered. 

“ Peter thought only seven times, but Jesus said, seventy 
times seven. Let ’s see ; how many times would that be ?” 

“ Four hundred and ninety times.” 

“ But some folks would n’t do it; would they ?” 

“ Would n’t do what ?” 

“ Forgive four hundred and ninety times.” 

“ I should say not,” very positively. 

A cloud came over the sweet little face. 

“ I knew a man out in Nebraska who would n’t forgive even 
once,” she said. 


68 


SWEETHEART. 


He winced, but asked, 

“How was that ?” 

“ He lived right next door to Miss Lawrence and he had 
such a pretty little boy, named Tommy. One day Tommy ran 
away from school and his father found it out. Tommy was sorry 
he ’d run away, and told his father so. He begged him to forgive 
him. Instead of forgiving him, what do you suppose he did T 

“ Whipped him, most likely.” 

“Yes, that’s what he did. Oh, how he whipped him!” her 
eyes filling with tears at the remembrance. “ He nearly killed 
him. Miss Lawrence said, and we could hear him scream and 
scream. I could n’t bear to hear him ; I cried, and cried, and 
cried, until grandpa said I ’d better stop crying and do something 
for the poor little whipped boy.” 

“ Did you T 

“Yes; I had a new book, full of lovely pictures, and I gave 
him that.” 

“ Did n’t you want it yourself T 

“ Oh, yes, I wanted it, but he needed it. I think it is dread- 
ful for a father not to forgive his own son; don’t you. Uncle 
Dick ?” 

“Yes,” he answered quietly, but the anguish he was enduring 
was intense. 

“ I liked Tommy,” she continued, “and I hope his father has 
learned to forgive him by this time. I like boys,” quaintly. 

“ Do you know many boys ?” 


MARGUERITE SEYMOUR. 


69 

“Only two: Tommy and Dick.” 

“ Who is Dick ?” 

“ He ’s a little boy just my age — ten years old. He used to 
do errands for Miss Lawrence when grandpa was sick. He and 
his mother lived alone in a little room away up three flights of 
stairs. They were very poor, Miss Lawrence said, and the lady 
was a clerk in a big store. But she got sick, being on her feet 
all the time, and could n’t work any more. I saw her three times. 
One day Dick’s eyes were so red that I knew he ’d been crying. 
I asked Miss Lawrence what the matter was, and she said she 
should n’t wonder but he was hungry, and his mother too. She 
would n’t dare send them anything to eat for the world, they were 
so proud. I told grandpa about it, and he said, ‘ See here, Sweet- 
heart, our friends send me such loads of good things I can’t 
begin to eat them all, so you just fill a basket and take it to 
Dick’s mother. She’ll not refuse to take it from you.’ So I 
did.” 

“ Did she accept it 

“Yes, and she kissed me. Oh, she was so lovely. Uncle 
Dick, so beautiful ! But she was so sad. I went again one day 
with flowers. Then, after grandpa went to heaven, I went once 
more to say good-by. She cried, and Dick cried, and so did I. 
You see, I loved them both, they were so beautiful and good. 
Dick has great big dark brown eyes — ” 

She stopped for a minute, and peered into the eyes of the 
man on the couch. 


70 


SWEETHEART. 


“ I have thought sometimes that his eyes were like yours. 
Funny, is n’t it ? And he had your name — Dick.” 

“ What was his other name.?^ Dick what.?^” 

“ Dick Seymour.” 

Mr. Dalzell’s face grew deathly pale. 

“ Did she have brown eyes, too, like the boy’s 

“Oh, no; she had blue eyes; oh, such lovely blue eyes! 
But I wanted to cry, when I looked at her, because they were so 
sad — her eyes. She had hair just like gold — shining gold. She 
asked me where I was going, and when I told her she clung to 
me as if she could n’t ever let me go. She said, ‘ Oh ! oh 1 oh I’ 
that was all, but I guess she wanted to come too.” 

“ Did she say so ?” 

“ No ; but she said she used to live in this city long ago, 
when she was a young lady, and that she had had such a beauti- 
ful home. I guess her folks have all gone to heaven, like mine. I 
often think of her and Dick. I wish they had a home to come 
to like this one, and a dear old Uncle Dick to love them; don’t 
you 

“ Yes,” he answered in a voice that sounded hoarse to the 
child, although it was instead weighted with sorrow and yearning. 

“ I guess I ’ve talked too much, and tired you all out,” she 
said regretfully. “ I’ll go to bed and let you rest. Good-night, 
Uncle Dick.” 

She kissed him on his forehead, his cheeks and his lips, and 
then went out of the room. 


MARGUERITE SEYMOUR. 


71 


The very next day Mr. Dalzell and Pompey were on their 
way to Nebraska — none too soon either, as they found out later. 
The former, upon reaching Miss Lawrence’s home, lost no time in 
hunting up Mrs. Seymour. He found her in great poverty, as he 
had expected, pale and changed, but lovelier than in the old happy 
days. In place of the girlish beauty, once hers, was a sweetness 
infinitely more attractive. But she was very weak; her only hold 
on life since her sickness had been her little son. 

The meeting between the long-parted ones was rarely beauti- 
ful and touching. The father knelt at his sick daughter’s bedside 
with tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“ Marguerite,” he said in an agony of remorse, “ it is a cruel 
shame, the way I have treated you, my daughter! Oh, my daugh- 
ter !” 

A tempest of fatherly love shook his frame; his heart ached 
with its burden of pity and regret. 

“ Father I” she cried, lifting his bowed head and looking with 
an expression of unutterable joy and love into his sorrowful but 
pleading eyes — “ father 1” 

She could say no more just then : but as she threw her feeble 
arms around his neck he knew he was forgiven. A sweet peace 
stole over him. 

“ You will be able to go home soon, my love T he questioned 
gently. 

To go home — soon! The joy was too great. She fell back 
upon her pillow and closed her eyes; but it was not death, only 


72 


SWEETHEART. 


the beginning of a new lease of life. She grew stronger every day 
after that, for joy is a wonderful physician, wielding a magic power. 
In a few days the doctor whom her father had called in gave his 
consent to the long journey. 

Meanwhile there had come a letter to Sweetheart which had 
filled her with joy and yet surprised her. She had once asked 
Uncle Dick if he had ever had any children, and he had answered 
“Yes;” but he had looked so sober that she had inferred that they 
were dead. 

“ Oh,” she cried out, “sweet, beautiful Mrs. Seymour is Uncle 
Dick’s real daughter, and little Dick is his real grandson ! Oh, 
it ’s lovely, lovely ! It ’s prettier than a fairy story !” 

The letter gave directions to Chloe to open and warm the 
whole house “ except one room ” (that was the disowned son’s), 
and to get Simon and Polly, her nephew and niece, to come and 
help. Pompey wrote, too, to Chloe, saying, 

“ De los’ lam’ am foun’. Praise de Lawd ! An’ dere’s a lil’ 
massa, too, hansom’ ez a pictur’. Massa say dat Simon and Polly 
must come en’ stay. Ain’t that good news, too } Good fer yo’, 
en’ good fer me, ’cause we am gettin’ ole, yer know.” 

Doors which led into rooms that Sweetheart had never seen 
were thrown open now. Simon and Polly came and dusted, made 
fires, shook rugs and uncovered furniture, aired beds and washed 
windows. 

Sweetheart wandered about in a perfect maze of delight, look- 


MARGUERITE SEYMOUR. 


73 


ing at the dancing fires in the great beautifully-tiled fireplaces, the 
magnificent pictures on the walls, the “grand” piano, not yet 
opened, the bric-a-brac, the cabinets, the statues, the silken dra- 
peries and massive carved furniture. 

Up stairs, too, it was as beautiful and charming in its way, 
with a suite of rooms all in white and gold, the white somewhat 
yellow, to be sure, from being shut up so long; but still it was all 
so pretty that it seemed to the happy child as if a fairy had been 
there and waved her wand. 

It did not occur to her that she was the “ fairy,” or “angel,” 
or “ princess,” or whatever you may choose to call it, whose wand 
of “ loving ministry ” had wrought this wonderful transformation 
scene. 


lO 


74 


SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

BRINGING THE PRODIGAL HOME. 

It is astonishing how many wonderful things can take place 
in a little while. One morning, a few days after Mrs. Seymour’s 
arrival at her old home, Mr. Dalzell’s eyes fell upon the following 
item in a daily paper published in a city a hundred miles away. 
It was headed, 

“ RAZZLE-DAZZLE.” 

“ A man, apparently about thirty-five years old, was injured 
by a trolley car yesterday. He has a bad cut on his head and 
a broken arm. He was brought to the Lawrence Hospital on 
Quay Street. No one seems to know who he is and, what is still 
worse, the poor fellow himself does not know. When he was 
asked his name he replied, / Razzle-Dazzle.’ 

“ Evidently he has injured himself mentally as well as phys- 
ically. He bears the marks of dissipation, and yet he is a 
strongly-built, handsome fellow, with dark brown eyes, curling 
brown moustache and short wavy reddish-brown hair.” < 

Mr. Dalzell read this over three times. His lips twitched 
convulsively. Was it because he was thinking about his son.? 
He was always thinking about him lately. He had even put a 
carefully-worded notice into several papers, hoping it would catch 


BRINGING THE PRODIGAL HOME. 


75 


the eye of the prodigal. Could it be that this poor wounded 
friendless man in the Lawrence Hospital was his son } 

Perhaps, after all, the poor fellow had not said his name was 
“Razzle-Dazzle,” he may have said “Reg Dalzell;” and that was 
his son’s name, Reginald Dalzell, but they had called him “ Reg ” 
or “ Reggie.” 

It did not seem much of an effort to him to go a hundred 
miles in search of a son. He had gone many hundred miles in 
search of a daughter and he had found her. So he went without 
delay, taking the next train out. It was in the gloaming when he 
reached the Lawrence Hospital and was shown into the ward 
where the injured man lay. The nurse, a gentle-faced woman, 
met him at the door, and he told her his errand. 

“ He is asleep,” she said, “ but you can take a look at him.” 

So he softly approached the cot where the sick man lay, 
and looked down at the pale face with its marks of sin and sorrow 
and pain. His heart smote him. It was his son ; he did not 
need to look twice. His son! How could he have been so cruel 1 
Why had he not forgiven him, and helped him, instead of casting 
him off 1 

“ And I say unto you, Until seventy times seven,” the words 
rang in his heart. “ Until seventy times seven 1” 

The poor bandaged head ! The poor broken arm ! The 
poor suffering, homeless fellow 1 He had not meant to make a 
sound, not one, to disturb the sleeper, but he forgot himself and 
moaned. The brown eyes opened and fixed themselves upon 


76 


SWEETHEART, 


him, first with a dazed, half-scared look, which gradually merged 
into one of intense longing. The two — father and son — looked 
at each other as if fascinated. At last the sick man broke the 
spell. 

“ Is it you, father,” he said, “ or am I dreaming T 

“ Oh, Reggie, my son ! my son !” 

It was the old pet name of childhood days. Again the father 
was on his knees by the bedside of a sick child — ^just as he had 
been in that room in Nebraska. Again there was enacted the 
sweet scene of repentance and forgiveness. In a few days Reg- 
inald Dalzell was talcen home in a palace car, and the only closed 
room in the old-fashioned house was opened once more. The 
poor fellow could do nothing, for a number of weeks, but lie still 
and rest, but it was a blessed rest and opened the door into heaven 
for him. His lost strength was regained, and as he slowly crept 
back to health there was born an energy such as he had never 
before known — an energy to climb upward. 

These were golden days in the old homestead. It would be 
hard to tell who was the happiest, father, daughter, or son. Sweet- 
heart, or Becky. The peace and joy were indescribable. 

As for Mr. Dalzell, he found himself in such a world as he 
had never dreamed of. 

To feel that his children had suddenly been restored to him 
after long years of separation was wonderful! wonderful! 

The burden of sorrow and remorse had fallen away, and there 
had come a joy too great to be measured. His heart was over- 


BRINGING THE PRODIGAL HOME. 


77 


flowing with love for them all for his beautiful daughter and his 
repentant son, his manly little grandson, and Sweetheart. As for 
the latter, she divided her attentions among them all in a way so 
altogether charming that no one wanted her out of sight during 
the livelong day. 

She often sat by Reginald Dalzell’s bedside, ministering to 
him gently, sometimes smoothing his wavy hair or stroking his 
hands softly, often telling him a cheery story, which was inter- 
spersed with her happy laughter. Occasionally she would touch 
his pale forehead with her rosy lips. 

“ Dat blessed chile,” Chloe confided to Pompey, “ is leadin’ 
Massa Reggie ’long wid de res’ ob us to Jerusalem de golden.” 

It was even so. He felt that, beneath the love and compas- 
sion of her star-like eyes, there was a well full to the brim of 
“ peace and good will to all men.” 

Long before he was on his feet again he had settled the 
question that life was “ worth living.” With God’s help he would 
make it so. 

His father and his sister were by his bedside a great part of 
the time, and it was a picture to make angels smile to see their 
happiness. 

Marguerite Seymour had grown stronger steadily day by day 
until now she was perfectly well, and so happy that she often cried 
in the quiet of her own room for joy. 

“Safe in my old home! Beloved by my dear father! And 
Reggie reclaimed !” 


SWEETHEART. 


7S 

Over and over these words rang in her soul, making sweetest 
melody : 

‘ Home again ! Home again, from a foreign shore ! 

And oh, it fills my soul with joy to greet my friends once more !” 

Poor dear! she felt that she had been to a foreign shore; it 
had been far enough away, surely. 

She felt that she was receiving a blessed compensation for all 
the anguish of the years gone before. In all the happy years of 
her childhood her father had never been to her what he was now. 
In the olden days he had not been demonstrative. Perhaps you 
would not have considered him so now, but his daughter felt the 
difference in her inmost soul. His affection for her seemed to 
grow day by day. 

The old chapter of their lives was closed for ever, with its 
burdens of loneliness, home-sickness and general wretchedness; 
the new one had opened wondrously beautiful, and it often sent 
her to her knees in prayer and thanksgiving. 

When she met her father’s gaze fixed upon her with a look 
that she interpreted as “ all-enfolding,” with its tender solicitude, 
her heart was so full of joy that there seemed no room in it for a 
thought of the anguished past. 

“ That heavenly child 1” she would say to herself, referring to 
Sweetheart; “that heavenly child! God sent her here to teach 
father that ‘ God is love,’ and that he might become God’s child.” 

Although it was Mr. Dalzell’s pleasure to spend his money 


BRINGING THE PRODIGAL HOME. 


79 


royally for the dear ones of his household he ever remembered 
the lesson a “ child ” had taught him, to care for the “ least of 
these.” In loving his “neighbor” as himself he was daily growing 
wiser in heavenly lore. In lifting up the fallen and giving cups 
of “cold water ” to the suffering he was outgrowing self and reach- 
ing heavenward. 

Sweetheart often went with him on errands of mercy; Dick, 
too ; and as soon as Marguerite Seymour became strong enough 
she was frequently his companion. The work they accomplished 
was productive of immeasurable benefit ; this world will not reveal 
it all, but in the one beyond there will be the sweet welcome : 

“ Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom pre- 
pared for you from the foundation of the world ; 

“ For I was a-hungered, and ye gave me meat : I was thirsty, 
and ye gave me drink : I was a stranger, and ye took me in : 

“ Naked, and ye clothed me : I was sick, and ye visited me: I 
was in prison, and ye came unto me.” 

“ It beats all,” said Pompey to Chloe one day, after returning 
from a “ round,” as he termed it, with Mr. Dalzell ; “ it do n’t 
seem like our ole massa any moah ; seems like a new one, so 
good, an’ kin’, an’ lovin.’ Yo’ oughter see him, Chloe, in dem hos- 
pitals an’ down in de slums a bringin’ smiles inter de lil’ pale faces 
an’ a liftin’ folks up. It ’s wuth seein’, Chloe ; ’deed it is.” 


8o 


SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE PARTY. 

The old long-neglected yard and garden were beautiful again 
and well kept. The mould and dirt of years had been cleared 
away by Simon, and in their place had come brilliant bloom and 
sweet fragrance. There was a carpet of soft green grass, now 
velvety smooth because of Simon’s recent attention to it. Some 
magnificent old trees arched over it, through the branches of which 
the sunlight flickered and danced upon the heads of the chil- 
dren swinging in the hammocks underneath — heads of gold and 
black and brown. Becky was in one of the hammocks with Sweet- 
heart, learning her daily lesson. She had not known how to read 
and write until Sweetheart taught her; but she was progressing 
finely, and was to be sent to school in the fall. Happiness is a 
great beautifier, and its influence over Becky had been so great 
that old associates could hardly have recognized her. She was 
plump and fair and pretty, bright too, and so faithful and willing 
that every one in the family was attached to her. She no longer 
worked in the kitchen, since Polly had come, but was a sort of 
a maid to Mrs. Seymour and Sweetheart. One of the greatest 
delights of her life was to brush and curl the child’s golden hair 
every day. And now that June was midway she helped Sweet- 


THE PARTY. 


8 1 

heart every day gather the J une roses and arrange them about 
the house. 

The old rustic seats and the vases in the yard had been 
painted, and the latter were further beautified by an abundance of 
“ green things growing.” 

Richard Dalzell comes out of the house, his daughter on one 
arm, his son, just beginning to walk about, on the other. Their 
eyes take in the beautiful picture. They hear the songs of chil- 
dren and birds. They smell the fragrance of the roses. They see 
the glow of the fresh verdure. They feel in the depths of their souls 
the beauty of it all, and over their happy eyes there creeps a mist. 

Suddenly a voice sweeter than any bird’s breaks forth in 
song, the voice of Marguerite Seymour: 

‘ ‘ Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. ’ ' 

The father’s bass and the brother’s tenor join in ; so does 
Sweetheart’s voice, and Dick’s and Becky’s, and Chloe stops 
“ Jerusalem the Golden ” to swell the song of thanksgiving. 

It was a golden day! And when the song was over the 
trio of grown folks sat down in the rustic chairs and Sweet- 
heart and Becky stole softly away. Mr. Dalzell saw them go, and 
thought, Some sweet surprise in store for us : that child is always 
thinking of giving pleasure to some one!” 

And it was a sweet surprise, for presently the two children 
returned with a tray full of glasses of cool, foaming milk-shake and 
a silver basket full of sugared snow-cakes fresh from Chloe’s deft 
hands. 


II 


S2 


SWEETHEART. 


While they were enjoying the refreshments a far-away look 
came into Sweetheart’s eyes. For some time she did not speak. 

Then, when Mr. Dalzell said with a smile, 

“ A penny for your thoughts, my dear !” she answered laugh- 
ingly, 

“I’ll not charge you anything. Uncle Dick; I was thinking 
how lovely it would be to have a party right here in this beautiful 
yard.” 

“ A good idea !” Mr. Dalzell said, supposing she meant to 
invite some of the old friends of the family, who had ventured to 
ring the door-bell once more after Mrs. Seymour’s return and, 
finding themselves welcomed, had come often since. “Whom 
shall we invite 

“ Those folks at the East End you and Aunt Marguerite 
were talking about this morning ; that man and his wife who 
you said had nearly starved themselves for the sake of their little 
children. And of course we can invite the children too. And 
that poor woman who had to sell her bed to pay for her pre- 
cious little baby’s funeral ; we must invite her and the children 
that are left. And I suppose there are orphans down in the 
dark cellars and up in the bare attics — Chloe said so; we can 
invite them all — every one — and give them such a happy, happy 
day ! Can’t we, dear Uncle Dick 

Uncle Dick did not answer just then, but he looked at his 
daughter and his son, who did not speak either. It was little 
Dick who broke the silence. 


THE PARTY. 


S3 


“ Why do n’t you answer Sweetheart, grandpa ?” he asked a 
little impatiently. “ She wants a party for the folks in the East 
End. Can she have it ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Hurrah for grandpa !” shouted Dick ; and so the party for 
the “ East End ” folks was decided upon. They talked it all 
over : what they should have to eat, what they should arrange 
for the amusement of their guests, etc., etc. 

They gave the party early in July. The guests came singly, 
in couples, in groups, in families, men, women, children, and even 
babies, the young and old, and the blind. Some came boldly, 
others shyly, but they were all welcomed. 

The beautiful yard looked like fairy land. The swings, the 
hammocks, the garden seats and chairs, the blossoms with their 
sweet fragrance, the flowers, the birds, the voices of little children 
at play, the cooing of tiny babies, the thanks of pale-faced mothers, 
the stories, the games, the music by a hidden orchestra — oh, it was 
wonderful ! 

Then, the supper ! The house doors were thrown open, and 
out came the waiters : Mr. Dalzell, Mrs. Seymour and Dick, Reg- 
inald, Sweetheart, Becky, Pompey, Simon and six more, whom 3^ou 
do not know, engaged for the occasion. Other strangers to you 
were in the kitchen helping good old Chloe and Polly. The 
collation was fit for a queen. I would not undertake to tell you 
the menu, but it satisfied and delighted every one, even those 


84 


SWEETHEART. 


who arranged the bill of fare : biscuits and sandwiches, cold meats 
of various kinds, salads and cakes, gold-tinted and crimson jel- 
lies, ice cream and ices, candied fruits, iced tea and lemonade. 
And when the supper was over Sweetheart and Dick and Becky 
ran about everywhere, with flower - garlanded baskets on their 
arms, handing out to every one mottoes of gold and silver, tied 
with gay ribbons of many tints and colors and filled with delicious 
cream almonds. When it was all over — this party — and the 
guests had all gone home. Sweetheart threw her arms around Mr. 
Dalzell’s neck and hugged him, according to little Dick’s state- 
ment, “ like a young bear.” 

“Oh, you dear Uncle Dick!” she said, rapturously; “you 
blessed, blessed dear I” 

Then she ran off, with Dick chasing her. 

“ She is well named,” said Marguerite Seymour, looking lov- 
ingly after her. 

“ What, Sweetheart T' questioned her father. 

“ I was thinking of her other name, ‘ Theodora;’ gift of 


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